The Five Steps
by Sandylee007
Summary: CHAPTER 5 FINALLY WORKS! When Moriarty finds out that Sherlock is alive the man pays back the most affective way; right to Sherlock's heart. Will Sherlock manage to save John before it's too late? A POTENTIAL FIVE SHOT POTENTIAL LIGHT SLASH LATER
1. Denial

A/N: So, okay. This is my very first 'Sherlock' fic. I've grown obsessed with the series lately and just couldn't resist. (smirks sheepishly)

WARNINGS: POTENTIAL SLASH. (Although I doubt there'll be any kissing and stuff involved. So nothing hard and heavy.) Language. Violence. Torture. Eh… Anybody out there anymore?

DISCLAIMER: Nope, I don't make a dime out of this. Or less. Just someone who borrows these characters to treat a nasty case of obsession.

Alright… (gulps) This is always a extremely nerve wrecking part, so I'll get to it before I chicken out. I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

* * *

**_The Five Steps_**

* * *

Denial

* * *

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes. Quite easily too, he observed, especially for a dead man. He opened his eyes, and woke up to a headache. And although a year and two months had passed he glanced towards the other side of the tiny room, only to come to the disheartening conclusion that he was alone.

He really should've grown used to feeling lonely by now.

He took a deep breath, then pushed himself to a sitting position and out of the bed. Started the day just like he'd started every single one since his death. He rinsed the night's bitter taste from his mouth with a sickeningly strong drink, then sat down and took a piece of paper. Today starting his daily letter felt harder than usual.

'_Dear John,_

_I had that same dream again last night. You're right there, only steps away from me, walking away. I try to call out your name but you can't hear me. I keep calling out to you, until a dark tunnel appears and you walk right in. I try to follow you but I can't. You're gone and I didn't even get to see your face._

_If you were here I'm sure that you'd be able to explain that dream to me._

_Just so you know, hurting you is the only thing I regret. But I'd die a thousand times more to make sure that you're still in this world. Because this world is a better place with you in it, John._'

Sherlock took a deep breath, fought for a moment the keep the emotions that wanted to burst under control. Too many feelings he wasn't used to. It appeared that he was running out of things to say – each letter was shorter than the last. He swallowed thickly, unable to erase the lump that'd taken a permanent residence in his throat, then finished the letter like all the previous ones.

'_As soon as he's been taken care of I'll come home, I promise. I hope that you're waiting for me. I miss you._

_S.H._'

Sherlock stared at the written words with a degree of bitter amusement. He really should've told John all those things from his letters when he still could, because even if he'd ever actually manage to go back he already knew that he'd never get them choked out. And John would never, ever find any of his letters. He'd make sure of that.

Sighing heavily he hauled himself up and walked to a tightly locked chest on the other side of the room. The small, gold colored key was hanging from his neck in a chain, so that it rested on top of his heart at all times. The lock opened with a moan of protest, revealing a rather impressive collection of more or less neatly folded letters. One for each day since he'd been torn away from the world he knew.

'_To Dr. John Watson_', had been written to the back of every single one of them.

His facial muscles and aching chest painfully tight, Sherlock dropped the newest scribble amongst them and locked them away. It took a couple of seconds before he managed to hide away the key and step away, turn his back. Before he managed to distance himself from the longing.

His lethal chess game with Moriarty was already almost over. He wished that he would've been able to tell John that. In his own, sneaky manner Sherlock had helped the police bring down most of the criminal mastermind's trusted men. It was only a matter of time before he'd get to pull down the man himself. Before he'd finally get to go back home.

Only that fool's hope kept Sherlock from screaming until there was no breath left in him.

"I'm coming back home", he swore to the chest and the key. Somehow that pledge eased the hurt, just a little bit, although his eyes didn't feel entirely dry. "You asked for a miracle, remember? I hope that you're prepared for one."

* * *

The next time Sherlock woke up it wasn't morning. This time the usual dream was cut short, so that his own, heart wrenching scream was left echoing into his buzzing skull. His eyes flew open to the sound of a brief yet firm knock.

Sherlock was _not_ expecting company. That's why he was hasty to grab a gun before slipping soundlessly out of the bed and making his way to the apartment's door. He took a quick peek, only to meet nothing but a dark hallway. He frowned, not trusting the empty walls, and slid the door open. Still no one. But the hallway wasn't empty, either.

There, almost directly at his feet, was a smallish, neatly wrapped gift. There was no name, no explanations. Of course he knew that it was dangerous and insane to take the item inside. But Sherlock had never been one to back down in front of some danger.

As he retreated into the apartment and began to unwrap the mysterious item he soon wished that he'd backed out, though.

The first thing he saw made his blood run cold. It was a scarf, one he remembered extremely well. Completely stained in blood.

"John…!"

And there, resting right next to the scarf, was a sickeningly neatly cut off finger. Accompanied by a note that made everything spin in Sherlock's line of vision while his heart skipped a couple of valuable beats. Right there, in the pale, hollow light of a dawning day, the bottom dropped from his world.

'_You really shouldn't have broken the rules. Did you honestly think that I wouldn't find out? That you wouldn't be punished?_

_One of you will die. It looks like you've made your decision._

_Hurry up and you may get here before he's gone._

_M_'

* * *

TBC OR NOT?

* * *

A/N: So… Uh huh. It looks like things are going to be messy, now. (winces)

So… Was that any good, at all, to you? Or should I press 'delete' and pretend that this never existed? PLEASE, leave a review to let me know! It'd mean the world to me.

In any case, thank you so much for reading!

Take care!


	2. Anger

A/N: Surprise! (grins) This chapter wrote itself down before I had the slightest chance of catching up with my head. Hooray?

First of all, though… Gosh, THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for all the love that you've given this story! So many reviews and listing. (BEAMS and jumps with joy) This is my first 'Sherlock' chapter fic, so your support seriously means a lot to me. Thank you!

Alrighty. (takes a deep breath) This is always nerve wrecking, so let's get to it before my nerves get the best of me. Hopefully you'll have a good ride.

* * *

Anger

* * *

Dr. John Watson woke up to a world of pain. For a moment it almost swept him right back down but he fought back. A distant voice in the back of his head – one that sounded awfully lot like Sherlock Holmes – kept screaming that he had to stay awake if his life was precious to him. That it wasn't the time to follow Sherlock just yet.

His eyes opened slowly, unwillingly and only halfway. What he found was a blurry figure that sat much too close. He frowned, trying to bring some sense into the situation.

Where the hell was he? What happened? The last thing he remembered was shaking the hand of a new patient…

_Oh…!_

"Well, Dr. Watson…" He knew that voice. He must've heard it before. Why couldn't he remember? "You finally decided to join the world of the living."

With a frown John bit back a whimper of pain while a new onslaught of pain washed right through, attempted to adjust his eyes so that he could see more clearly. He had to have a concussion. His head wouldn't have felt like this if he didn't. And they must've given him something, to make sure that he'd be nice and still until the moment was right. That wasn't a very promising combination. What else had they…?

"Oh no, don't do that. Keep your eyes open. I'd like to have a little chat with you before the last player in this little game joins us. I'm sure that you're curious to know why you're here."

That certainly slammed a little bit of lucidity into John. His vision was finally clearing. Enough so to bring him face to face with Moriarty. He most certainly wasn't prone to rage. But at the moment only pain, restraints and a constantly weakening sound of reason kept him from dashing forward and… "You", he hissed. "How…? Why…?" Moriarty was supposed to be dead. Gone. Exactly like…

Moriarty leaned forward on his own chair with a small, crooked smile. "Because, John dear, I'm afraid that our Sherlock broke the rules. That's why I couldn't die just yet."

A flare of wrath shot through John, with such force that it struck him breathless for a moment. His eyes narrowed. "He gave his life! How can you say that it's not enough?"

Moriarty's eyes darkened. "The deal was a life for a life. Pay attention now, John, because this is the important part." Those eyes were dangerous. Devoid of all humanity. "The pickle here is that he refused to stay dead. And that's why you, dear doctor, are here."

John didn't catch a syllable of the last sentence. His head was echoing with the immense weight of what'd just been thrown at him. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. In a couple of seconds his head began to spun. Was it a concussion or a panic attack? Or perhaps the drugs that must've been given to him? It didn't even matter. All that registered…

/ _"… refused to stay dead …"_ /

Sherlock… He was still alive? But… John saw the fall himself, felt that the pulse was no longer there. That Sherlock was no longer there. So how…?

"Stop…" There was moisture on his cheeks. It was impossible to tell if it was cold sweat or tears. His throat was painfully tight while he pushed the words through tightly gritted teeth. "Stop… messing with my head."

"I'm not the one who's been fooling you all along, John."

Breathing was almost impossible by then. John couldn't remember how long it was from the previous proper inhale. Black spots danced in his line vision until the dark swallowed him up completely.

* * *

"Wake up, John. Our final visitor is here." Moriarty's voice coaxed John back to awareness. Suppressing a cry of pain was one of the hardest battles he'd ever won. There was a tiny, icy smile on the criminal's face. "And it sounds like he's quite eager to see you."

Before John could make any questions two men he'd never seen before walked in, a third one held firmly between them. The third man's head was covered by a hood but his body language told quite clearly that he wasn't pleased with the situation. John swallowed heavily, twisting his aching wrists in their metallic restraints. Who else had Moriarty gotten involved?

The said criminal stepped forth, obviously enjoying the situation. "Take off the hood, why don't you? It's about time for these two to see each other again."

The henchmen obeyed. The black hood was removed. And in an instant John's whole world came to a violent halt.

Because staring back at him with unreadable eyes was Sherlock Holmes. The same Sherlock he'd seen die. The same Sherlock he'd buried. The same Sherlock he'd…

The downpour of emotions was so overwhelming that for a moment John was sure that he'd pass out again. He gasped under the tidal wave of relief, rage, joy, confusion and grief. No matter how hard he blinked the man stood before him didn't disappear. He didn't wake up from this twisted dream.

Tears welled up into John's eyes, although none of them spilled. He stared, and stared, wondering if Moriarty had given him something that made him hallucinate. Tiny, painfully sharp pieces were moving inside his veins, tearing open wounds that'd already began to scar. He'd experienced that kind of pain only once in his life.

Sherlock's eyes weren't dry either but the man's composure held. To some extend, at least – it was impossible to ignore how badly those hands shook, the despair hiding in those eyes. "I… I'm so sorry, John."

John swallowed, wishing from the bottom of his heart that the circumstances had been different. Sherlock was so close, yet so very far… Moriarty's shadow fell on them both as the criminal stood nearby, observing.

"You shouldn't have come, Sherlock", the doctor managed to choke out in the end. It was ridiculous, perhaps even cruel. After all those endless months, after over a year, of believing that he'd never see his best friend again the man was right there. And that was the first thing he said? "You… You were safe. You should've stayed safe."

He was almost sure that he saw a flash of hurt and remorse in the eyes looking back at him. Sherlock's Adam's apple bopped. "It wasn't safe anymore. And I wasn't planning on waiting around and let him kill you."

One stubborn tear rolled down John's cheek. _Damnit, Sherlock…!_ "I'm not going to watch you die again, either."

Moriarty chuckled, clearly having a lot of fun. "As entertaining as this is, we really need to get started. Sherlock, take a seat why don't you? Judging by the way you're shaking coming back to life must be exhausting. I'd know."

His two escorts didn't leave Sherlock with a lot of choice. Without a chance of protest the detective was hauled to a chair that'd been placed precisely five steps away from John. Judging by the way Sherlock grimaced those hands handling him were far from gentle while cuffing him firmly. The doctor wondered with alarm if his friend had been injured.

"Don't hurt him!" John pleaded before he even registered the words coming. His wrists squirmed desperately but all he managed to cause was even more pain.

He didn't like the look in Moriarty's eyes when they turned towards him. "What in he world makes you think that I'd want to give him an easy way out? Hurting _him_ is too easy. I want him to live in agony, John. I want him to remember this lesson for the rest of his life. And you, dear Dr. Watson, are going to help me with that."

In an instant Sherlock was wriggling, protesting with every ounce of strength there was in his worryingly thin body and amazing mind. It was a small miracle that the sheer power of will didn't break down the chair. "Leave him alone, Moriarty!" The tears seemed to be dangerously close to falling. "This is about us, remember? You don't have to…!"

Moriarty, who'd already taken a small case, wasn't in the mood for listening. "I'm afraid that your little stunt made this our doctor's business as well." The man began to prepare something he blocked from John's view. "You should be very proud of him, Sherlock. He put up a good fight when my men… picked him up. Hence the battered appearance." The criminal seemed to sink into his thoughts for a moment. "A human body is a very fascinating thing, you see? It's remarkable how much damage it's able to handle, especially with the absurd amount of vulnerable spots. I'm curious to test just how far the good doctor's limit of endurance goes."

Sherlock yelled something, fighting against the restraints once more, but John barely noticed any of that. All he managed to register was the item in Moriarty's hold. It was a taser.

"You know, Sherlock, I found this from your own home while waiting for you a few hours ago. I wonder if you've ever tried it, purely out of scientific curiosity if for nothing else." Those eyes turned towards John's, made his blood run cold. "Let's put it to a test now."  
John shivered when the item was placed to the most sensitive spot on the back of his neck. Sherlock was very, very still and quiet, just staring with something John didn't quite manage to read in his current condition. If it wasn't for the frantic sound of his own thumping heart John would've wondered if time had frozen somehow.

It certainly hadn't. Moriarty pushed the taser just a little bit tighter against his skin before speaking. "Do you see now, Sherlock? You should've never, ever broken the rules of our game."

John opened his mouth, attempted to voice something that would've erased that wild, haunted look from Sherlock's eyes. But it was too late. The pain… was unimaginable. It shot through him like fire, went through absolutely all of him with such force that he was sure it'd fry every single one of his veins. But he refused to scream, refused to give Moriarty the satisfaction. Instead he kept his eyes locked to Sherlock's, did his best to provide enough comfort for them both.

_I'll be fine. Honestly._

And then it came again, this time with a little bit more force. Dark sneaked to the edges of John's line of vision but he struggled to hang on to whatever awareness he had. Held on to Sherlock, who was only five steps yet a lightyear away.

_I watched you die, remember? Compared to that… Compared to that this is nothing._

Sherlock, the stubborn bonehead he was, appeared deaf to what John tried to radiate. The detective's perfect composure cracked ever so slightly. The howling voice was a touch too high. "… going to kill him!…"

John felt like he'd been sinking. The pain he'd been in before had changed, withdrawn to a dull ache gnawing him all over. He struggled and managed to steal a one more glance towards Sherlock. The doctor attempted to catch his breath for speaking and failed.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock._

With a sudden, unexpected lightning bolt of breathtaking pain darkness came.

* * *

"… hn…! John!"

The voice calling out to him came to John slowly, piece by piece. He frowned, at first not quite understanding what in the world was going on. Why was he in pain?

_Ah, that's right._

"John?" That voice… It wasn't Moriarty's. But it couldn't possibly… "Are you awake?"

Slowly, with a deep frown on his face and biting back a wince of pain, John forced his eyes to open slightly. At first the figure before him swayed in a nauseating manner but quite soon everything clicked into place. Everything, and nothing at the same time.

How could a dead man be right there in front of him?

Was he dead, too, then? John's frown deepened. His head hurt. His chest hurt. Hell, everything hurt. The dead weren't supposed to feel…

"John, eyes open!" Sherlock's ghost sounded almost frantic. Odd. "Eyes open! Look at me, alright? Look at me."

But weren't his eyes open? Oh. They weren't.

It was a even harder struggle this time around. The sight John met was exactly the same as the previous time. He swallowed, everything spinning madly for a moment. And all of a sudden he didn't have the slightest clue of what to feel. "You… You died." It was quiet, raspy and pathetic. For a moment he wasn't sure if his friend – who, apparently, wasn't a ghost after all – had even heard him.

Sherlock heard alright. "I already said that I'm sorry." There was confusion, hurt and genuine worry that made John want to smile and throw a fit at the same time. That lack of understanding towards other people's emotions was one of the detective's most endearing and infuriating traits.

John swallowed. He didn't like the taste of blood. "Sherlock… Sometimes saying sorry… It's just not enough."

Sherlock frowned, still clearly not even halfway down the path to understanding. "Then what am I supposed to do? I did it to protect you! I did it to save your life!"

Bloody hell, there was no stopping the tears trickling down John's cheeks. Pain. Anger. All of it crashing together. "It's been over a year, Sherlock! You let me grieve for over a year! Do you have any idea of how much it hurt? Can you even imagine, for just one bloody second, what I've been through?" His hands were shaking with helpless rage in their restraints. There was so very much he would've wanted to do. He wanted to punch Sherlock, _hard_. Swear and rant, which was something he never did. He wanted to flood out just how much he'd missed the detective, how fucking badly it killed him to visit his best friend's grave. He wanted to wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold on, just to believe that the man was actually there.

But the five steps separating them refused to disappear.

Sherlock's eyes were a lot darker than usual, a stark contrast against the unhealthily pale skin. Full of… ache, could it be? Yes. He'd definitely hurt his friend. "Are you even happy that I'm still alive?"

The question went through John like a dagger, stung hellishly. Struck all breath out of him. It took far longer than it should've to find the words. "Sherlock… Listen me carefully, now." Their eyes locked and held. Both of them hurt, confused and scared. "No matter how furious I am with you… I thank God that you're still alive. That I didn't lose you, after all. I need you to believe that. I don't want to see you dead ever again."

Sherlock stared for a second. Two. Five. Eight. Ten. There might've been some moisture in the detective's eyes. The eventual response was surprising, to say the least. "I… don't want to see you dead ever again, either."

John frowned. He was in pain, groggy and confused. His friend's words didn't make any sense to him. "What do you mean?"

A single tear, no more, traveled down Sherlock's pale cheek. Only to disappear in less than a breath. "Your body… It couldn't take the electricity. Your heart stopped. It took them a minute and twenty-eight seconds to get it beating again."

John's eyes widened. That… was surprising. But it would explain why his chest felt like an elephant had been dancing on it. _Probably weren't too gentle, either…_ He didn't know how long the stun lasted until he glanced towards Sherlock's face once more and realized that he'd have to say _something_. "Sherlock… I'll be alright. Okay? I'm fine. I'm alive. I'm right here." By some miracle he even managed a tiny, frail smile. "It'll be okay."

Sherlock blinked furiously and for a moment the man's true emotions were right there, loud and clear. But then the mask slipped back on with a stiff nod. "Yeah. I know that. I have a plan."

Staying awake and alert was becoming a struggle. John sighed and sunk heavily against the chair. "You always do." _I just hope that you'll make your move fast enough…_

Sherlock's mouth opened but before the detective could say a word the room's door opened. Moriarty walked in and emitted a pleased sound upon discovering that John was awake. "Ah, finally! I was wondering when we'd get to continue with our little game."

The look in Sherlock's eyes would've made even the mightiest shiver. It was easy to see the wheels turning. "What are you going to do to him?"

A chilling grin appeared to Moriarty's lips. "It's amusing that you decided to put it that way. Because you see… This time _I_ am not the one calling the shots." The sworn enemies were locked into a icy staring contest. Neither backed down. "_You_ are."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Oh crap… (winces) Things are seriously NOT looking up, are they? Those poor things! There's quite a hell ahead, it seems…

Now, I have two questions for you before I'll call it a day. Was the chapter decent, at all? PLEASE, leave your thoughts before taking off! It'd be fantastic to hear from you.

And secondly… This story seems to have gained a life of its own and there's already a plotbunny building up in my head. (Oh, poor John if my head keeps on ticking like this…!) So, my question for you… **What would you say if this would be updated every five days instead of my usual once a week cycle?**

Until next time, ya all! 'Hope I'll see you all there.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: Well, if you insist… (smirks excitedly) I'm overjoyed to hear that you liked the first bit! 'Hope the next one delivers as well.

Gigantic thank yous for the review!

* * *

**Mimz**: Awww, glad to hear you think so. (beams)

Huge thank yous for the review!


	3. Bargaining

A/N: As promised, here I am after only five days. (grins) Yay?

First things first, of course! Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all your reviews and love! You guys have totally taken me by surprise. It feels incredibly good that someone aside me is enjoying this fic. So thank you! (HUGS)

Alright, before I get all mushy… (takes a deep breath) Let's go! I hope that you're ready for this one.

* * *

Bargaining

* * *

Once upon a time, when it was just his own life he was toying with, Sherlock really, truly liked games. The more dangerous the better. None of the several substances he'd tried during his life had given him the high adrenaline did.

But there, restrained to a chair with John only five steps away, playing a game was _the last_ thing he wanted to do. Especially when John's face and bared upper body were already covered in bruises, wounds and blood. Especially when John had already died once, right there under Sherlock's very eyes.

Sherlock was willing to play with almost anything but _this_ at stake.

John, his solid rock and voice of reason, had never appeared more vulnerable than right then, not even with bombs strapped all around him or walking away from Sherlock's grave. All those injuries formed a sickening map all over the tormented body. It didn't help matters at all that the former army doctor had lost a startling amount of weight since the last time they met. But those eyes… They hadn't lost a hint of their resolve. When John was sure that he had Sherlock's full attention there was a nod Moriarty couldn't possibly catch. A permission. A demand, even.

_Game on._

Time. They needed time. Sherlock's plan for getting them both out of this mess alive was ticking on but they still needed to buy some time.

Although looking away from John was harder than it should've been Sherlock moved his gaze to Moriarty. "I won't play any game without knowing the rules first." It was remarkable, really, that he managed to keep his tone as flat as it was. Years and years of numbness did miracles.

Moriarty smiled. "I didn't expect anything less of you." It was easy to notice how John shivered when the killer moved to stand behind the doctor. "The rules are quite simple, but let me assure you that this game will be interesting." Moriarty held up three fingers. "You, Sherlock… will choose three bones. That is all I'm asking you to do."

It's essential to recognize a deal that sounded too good to be true. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "For what purpose, exactly? It wouldn't be much of a game without me knowing all the rules."

Moriarty shrugged, appeared slightly annoyed for actually having to explain this. "For my entertainment, of course. And for your very own lesson." The man was clearly enjoying the situation. That hand was creeping far too close to John's neck, to the spot where the taser had hit. (Sherlock would never, ever forget the sound, the smell, the sheer agony in John's eyes right before…) "Like I said, it's all very simple. Pay attention now or I'll reconsider your participation to this game. You choose three bones. And I crush them. But I'd suggest you use imagination. Choose fingers or toes and I'll take it as my liberty to crush all of them. Or well, what's left of them."

When John's heart stopped Sherlock's nearly did the same thing. It wasn't much of a surprise – in many ways John _was_ his heart, and soul. The cold, and the agony… They'd nearly driven him mad. (Or, perhaps, _madder_ than most already claimed that he was.) And Moriarty had enjoyed every single second of it.

/ _"See, Sherlock? You do have a heart, after all."_ /

/ _"I'll burn the heart out of you."_ /

During those indescribable moments of pure hell Sherlock had solemnly sworn to himself that he'd never, ever give Moriarty the same satisfaction again. That he wouldn't let the monster enjoy this vicious, unfair game. But as all too often with John in the equation he failed to stand behind his oath.

Sherlock felt… far too many things he wasn't comfortable with. Outraged. Terrified. Sick to his stomach. And it showed, much against his will. "And if I refuse to choose?"

Much to his irritation Moriarty didn't appear surprised. In fact there was a hint of amusement on the madman's face. "Would you prefer that I choose, then? Excellent!" He really, really should've noticed the hammer like item sooner. Before it was measuring up John's slightly trembling body. Going from the head to side to legs, then right back up again. "I must admit that I have some… intriguing bits in mind."

"Clavicle." Good grief, was that even Sherlock's own voice? He swallowed, struggled against his restraints, but absolutely nothing brought him a hint of comfort. It felt like there'd been an army of fire ants on his skin. His eyes stung hellishly, right along with all of him. "Left." He kept his eyes focused on John's. Just like he did before the fall. The guilt… It was right there. Suffocating him. Driving him up the wall, out of his skin.

_I'm sorry, John! I'm so sorry…!_

John screamed. Really, actually screamed, for the first time since Sherlock had been tossed into this nightmare. Like a wounded wild animal. Sherlock wanted to scream as well but there wasn't a breath of air in his lungs. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut although he immediately hated himself for such cowardice, numbing himself with a mantra of _I'msorryhangonpleasehangonhurr yup_. He closed his eyes, tried to will his mind anywhere else.

To when he first met John.

To when they ran into the dark together, with John's trusting hand in his.

To the day when he was forced to tear it all apart. John screamed back then, too. Called out to him.

"SHERLOCK!"

It took a moment before Sherlock realized that the voice didn't belong to his memories. His dazed eyes flew open, full of terror and alarm. John was screaming for him, right here, right now, with the power of sheer despair. Despite all the pain Sherlock had put his best friend through the man still put all his faith in him. And suddenly nothing else mattered.

John was still conscious, although it appeared that just barely. Trembling like leaf, gasping for dear life, but conscious. Still fighting. Eyes still on Sherlock, a flame visible in them.

'_I'm still here_', those eyes said. '_So you keep fighting, too, damnit._'

And that was precisely what Sherlock planned on doing. He steeled himself, tried to catch his breath. It didn't matter anymore that his eyes weren't dry.

Moriarty chuckled. "Well how about that. This is even more exciting than I expected." The man leaned against John's injured shoulder, making the doctor wince and fidget. "Now, number two. And hurry up. Before I get bored."

Sherlock's ever analytical head was buzzing frantically, trying to come up with the proper course of action. Ribs? No, too unpredictable. Too many risks. And judging by the bruising and slight wheeze in breath some might already be damaged. Certainly not legs – he needed John to be able to walk.

Sherlock didn't dare to look towards John anymore. Instead he locked eyes with Moriarty, with as much venom as he could muster. "Left wrist."

Sherlock's eyes were on the shadows that could be easily seen in the dimly lit room. Moriarty's shadow moved. There was a extremely sickening sound that'd haunt Sherlock's mind forever before John's shadow shuddered and slumped slightly forward for a moment. The horrible sounds that made their way to the detective could've been gasping, gagging or sobs. Perhaps all of them combined. Truthfully, he wasn't sure if he even wanted to know.

At that moment Sherlock made the mistake of stealing a glance towards John's unrestrained wrist. Nausea and something deeper than agony washed over him. The missing finger was painfully obvious. It'd been cut off skillfully but the whole area was red and swollen. Even though he wasn't the doctor out of them the detective knew that it was infected. That it was giving John a hell.

"It's… It's okay, Sherlock." As though through some haze John's voice drifted to him. There was a unimaginable amount of pain on the doctor's safe. But not a trace of surrender. "It's okay."

_The hell it is!_ But he forced himself to nod, for John's sake. Perhaps for his own sake as well. They both braced themselves, knowing full well what was coming.

Moriarty, not appreciating the silence one bit, leaned closer to John once more. The cursed torture device fell closer as well. "Five seconds, Sherlock. Before I choose for you."

Sherlock too a deep breath, not liking the way it shuddered. Not liking the constantly intensifying surges inside of him. "Left scapula", he forced out in the end

Moriarty's eyebrow bounced up. "Well, that's certainly going to require some work. But no matter. You're my guest, and your wish is my command."

Sherlock and John maintained eye contact while Moriarty measured up the correct spot, both of them panting and eyes full of things that didn't even need to be voiced. Both trying to gather the strength for this one more ordeal. Moriarty searched and in the end found a spot he liked. Sherlock, as much as he would've wanted to, couldn't look away when the strike came down with a sickening amount of force.

He couldn't decide which one was worse. The nauseating crack of a slowly giving in bone, or John's breathless whimper. Or no, perhaps neither of those. The worst part was that one hit didn't do the trick. Appearing pleased that he had an excuse to do so Moriarty struck again. Another crack, another whimper. Something moist that could've been either sweat or a tear traveled down Sherlock's cheek and he realized that he was trembling violently. As though he'd been the one going through all that pain. (It was odd, to feel so connected to another person. Disturbing.) While Moriarty assessed the situation Sherlock hoped, from the bottom of the heart he hadn't known he had before John, that the ordeal was finally over. It wasn't. A one more strike fell down, exactly to the same spot as the previous ones. This time the crack was noticeably louder. John… didn't make a sound. At some point, while Sherlock had been occupied by Moriarty's actions, the doctor had slumped forward, head falling so that the face became hidden.

"John?" There was more than a little bit urgency in Sherlock's voice. More than a touch of despair. (If Mycroft would see him now…) No response. Was the doctor even breathing properly? Moriarty's presence be damned he called out again, anxious to make sure that his only friend – his one last link to whatever little sanity he had left – wasn't lost. "John!"

"As much pleasure as seeing you squirming like that gives me, I'd suggest you stop screaming at him. His body went through quite lot just now. Give him rest, why don't you?" There was a hazardous flash in Moriarty's eyes. "In the meantime, let's discuss over a game of chess. There are things we need to talk about."

Following Moriarty's snap of fingers steps approached Sherlock from behind. The hood came back on again, stealing his view to John. He could've sworn that he smelled something sickeningly sweet. And then all was nothing but darkness.

* * *

"Wakey, wakey, Sherlock." Moriarty's voice sounded uncomfortably loud, pummeled his aching skull. "It's time to start our game."

Struggling to regain at least some coherence Sherlock opened his eyes halfway, allowed them to linger around although his vision was barely half of what it should've been. He wasn't in the tiny, stone made round room where he faced John anymore. The room around him was huge, full of light and expensive furniture. Everything practically screamed Moriarty. As he lowered his gaze he blinked once, then snorted at what he found.

A chess board.

Moriarty shrugged. "I told you that we're about to discuss over a game, didn't I? So let's get started." The man gestured towards him. "Please. The guest starts."

Unsure of how to feel about the fact that his wrists weren't bound anymore Sherlock lifted his hand, put his fingers testingly around one piece. A tiny part of him was fascinated by the fact that nothing unpleasant happened. What in the world was Moriarty doing? He moved the piece, his eyes searching the criminal's. No answers were given.

Moriarty grinned in a way that revealed a lot of teeth. "Ah, a nice classical move. Who would've thought that you're old school." Leaning his chin to a hand the criminal made his own move. "Now, if you don't mind terribly I'm afraid that we'll have to get straight to business. Because I'd assume that we'll be getting company soon, no?" The man glanced towards him when he remained still. "It's your move, now."

His heart making moves that didn't feel healthy Sherlock made his decision.

"Good. Now, back to our other game." Moriarty thought for a long moment before starting to make a move. "One of my… associates has been keeping an eye on the situation. Your return from the dead has provoked quite a storm at the police station. It's in a state of chaos. All things considered, it's quite funny that you ran to your brother as soon as you came back to England. That you trusted John's life into his hands. If we'd have more time I'd like to ask a couple of things of your relationship. I'm sure that it's… complicated." The man's head tilted. "I'd also like to ask when they're coming, but I think that I prefer the element of surprise."

Sherlock's eyebrow bounced up. This time he didn't have to be urged to make his move. "How would you know that they'll find us?"

Moriarty appeared to be focused on contemplating over his next move. The man's tone was almost light. "Because otherwise you would've already gotten up and attacked me, consequences be damned."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. His move was sharp, aggressive. "What makes you think that I won't kill you anyway?"

Moriarty's face gave away nothing. The man's eyes locked with his as soon as the move had been made. "Oh, I can just see that marvelous head of yours coming up with all sorts of fascinating ideas for ending my life, such as it is. But the problem is that there's a life aside yours you need to consider, now. Because those gentlemen down there with our dear doctor…" The man pointed towards the floor. "… have been given direct orders to tear your heart to pieces if anything… unfortunate happens during this game of ours. And they know exactly where your heart lies."

Sherlock shivered, feeling such rage he couldn't remember experiencing ever before. His trembling fists balled while he fought to regain control over his breathing. Over anything, really. In the end he managed to anchor his chaotic mind to the image of John's face. It gave him enough focus to complete his next move.

Moriarty frowned, obviously unsatisfied. "Now what's that? My gosh, Sherlock, you really have gone rusty during your absence from the world of the living."

They made several moves in utter silence until Sherlock found his voice. "We both know that it's me you want to see dead." His eyes stung yet again, almost betraying the storm behind his façade. "So why don't you just end this, and let John go?"

Moriarty smirked. "As intriguing as that offer is, I have to decline." Those eyes flickered towards his. "You see, I already have one deal of that nature in the process. That's one reason why I wanted to talk to you alone. Our doctor is so modest that he'd be… displeased if he knew that I told you. He was quite insistent when trying to make me promise that I won't."

Sherlock frowned. This time his shaking had nothing to with anger or even cold. "What are you talking about?" He asked although a part of him already knew.

Moriarty smiled. And handed him what at first looked like an ordinary wrist watch. But then he noticed that it was counting down steadily. "That, my dear Sherlock… shows exactly how much longer your precious heart will still keep beating. You're not the only one I've been playing with over the past couple of hours. While you were… resting your eyes I had a little chat with John. We weighed the value of your life. And, I'm pleased to announce that our doctor reached a decision. Even faster than I'd expected, really."

Sherlock could barely breathe. For a moment, just a moment, he was _sure_ that his very heart had stopped beating altogether. _No…! No, no, no… John, you…! _"What the hell did you do to him?"

"Now, now, Sherlock. You really shouldn't be yelling at me. John made the decision all by himself. Aren't you paying attention?" Moriarty leaned closer, eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a predator that was an inch from a successful kill. "I was perfectly honest with him the entire time. Well, almost honest. I explained to him that only one of you would walk out of this building alive and made a simple offer. If he takes a drink for your unexpected return's honor – just one, simple drink – I promised that the one walking out would be you. He isn't stupid, that doctor of yours. He knows that my drinks are to die for." A finger pointed towards him at the exact right spot, followed by a astonished shake of a head. "I've never seen anyone drink like that." The killer put the finger to his lips. "Of course I was never planning on killing you at all. But let's keep that to ourselves, shall we? It'd sadden him to find out that he's dying for nothing." Those demon's eyes wandered towards the chess board. "How about that. I see a checkmate."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Okay… (takes a deep breath) That was quite a ride. Those poor things! How is this ever going to end happily for them?

PLEASE, leave a review before you go! This fic is coming together faster than I would've ever expected but your support would totally make my day. So… Pwease? That box bown below is quite inviting, isn't it?

Until next time! I really hope that I'll see you all then.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: I'm really, really happy to hear that you've enjoyed the ride thus far! (beams)

Honestly? I'd tell you if I'd know. (grins sheepishly) 'Hope it doesn't bother you too much.

Colossal thank yous for the review!

* * *

**Nana**: Awww, you're making me all giddy and excited here! (chuckles and hugs) I'm overjoyed to hear that you've been so happy with the story thus far. I hope that the next chapter turns out worthy of your expectations as well.

That's my guilty pleasure, too. (grins) It's fascinating to see a character that doesn't usually show emotions express some… humanity, I suppose. (Poor John!)

Huge thank yous for the review!


	4. Depression

A/N: Heh, surprise! I'm back already. (grins) It seems that this story is sort of typing itself. Odd, yes, and slightly disturbing, but also a lot of fun. We'll see just what came out of this bit…

BUT, first of course! Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your reviews and listings! This is my first 'Sherlock' chapter-fic, so your support means the world to me. (HUGS) Thank you!

Awkay, before I get all mushy and gushy, let's see what's up ahead next for our boys…

* * *

Depression

* * *

As disturbing as John found the thought, he was beginning to dread waking up. His dreams… They were quite pleasant, actually. In dreams he felt safe and sound. They took him away from his current nightmarish reality.

But Sherlock was in reality. He anchored himself on his best friend's presence, savoured the thought that the detective was still alive and at least relatively in one piece. Sherlock was going to live. Even though he felt his own time ticking and the mere thought of dying horrified him there was also a bizarre sensation of peace. At very least he wouldn't die without a reason.

Those thoughts were cut when he noticed how suspiciously red and puffy Sherlock's eyes seemed. Desperate to distract himself from thinking about his physical agony and to stop wondering when the symptoms would show he frowned, focusing on the detective's face. "…'lock?" His tongue felt three times thicker than usual. Impossibly heavy. That couldn't be a good sign. Alarm sent ice through his whole body, but the fear wasn't for himself. If Moriarty had actually been cruel enough to tell Sherlock…

Sherlock unleashed a brief, oddly bitter sound. It took a while before he recognized it. A sob? The detective seemed to be shaking. "You… You _moron_!" There was far too much grief and terror for it to actually sound like an insult. "How could you, John?! How could you…!" The rest faded away although lips kept moving.

There was no humor in John's tiny, thin smile. "'u know why", he barely managed to whisper in a feeble, soft tone. "… d the 'ame thing."¨

For a few moments Sherlock simply stared at him. It was impossible to tell what'd happen next, for there was no human being who could've predicted the detective's actions. Sherlock sat and stared, aside almost pitiable trembling so still that it was disturbing. And then came the last reaction anyone, including the detective himself, would've known to predict.

Sherlock began to cry. It wasn't anything loud or overly dramatic. Yet somehow the few yet huge, silent tears that rolled without any control were even more heartbreaking. The desperate gasps for precious air even more so. Aside a assumably dead body and a headstone that was the most painful thing John had ever seen in his life. Only his years as a doctor helped him regain enough composure to not break into tears himself.

John would've given anything, absolutely anything, if he'd been able to touch Sherlock just then. To take the infuriatingly, painfully shattered man into his arms and promise – promise, promise, _promise_ – that everything would be alright. But he couldn't. Couldn't even produce a single bloody coherent word.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry._

_But… It'll be okay. You'll see._

_You'll live to see._

_Everything's going to be okay._

"Alright." Sherlock's voice came so suddenly that John shivered with startle. There was steel in the detective's almost completely dry eyes. (_Almost_. That seemed to be the key-word with the two of them.) "Enough of that." The other man took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. Reattaching the cold mask seemed painful. It even hurt to watch. "We'll get out of here. Both of us. Do you hear me? We'll get out." Those eyes looking at him were wild. They remained on him as though they'd never dare to let go. "And you… You don't get to die, John. Do you hear me?" One can only wonder if Sherlock himself noticed how badly the detective's voice shook. "_Promise me_ that you won't die."

As a doctor it was against John's ethics to give false hopes. But that look in Sherlock's eyes… He couldn't stand it. And if he was truly honest with himself he needed the comfort as well. He needed it, because he was afraid that he might very well lose his mind if he didn't hold on to it. Hold on to the lie. "… 'omise."

It was the one, the only, promise John had ever given Sherlock that he knew he wouldn't be able to keep. And he was terrified of finding out what'd happen to the detective when the promise would be betrayed. It terrified him even more than the poison coursing through his veins.

John blinked once, a sour realization dawning all of a sudden.

_Oh, that's right…_

He'd never be there to actually see what'd become of Sherlock, would he?

All of a sudden, without a warning, all lights went out with a chilling, buzzing sound.

* * *

Mostly because of the dark, this time John didn't notice the point where he fell asleep, or perhaps passed out. When consciousness rushed back in the first thing he noticed was the inferno somewhere underneath his ribcage. Fighting back the scream that wanted to erupt he hissed quietly instead, wiggling furiously to find even a hint of comfort. There was none.

His lungs, and his heart… It felt like they'd been on fire. The searing pain was intensifying constantly and John could only wonder just how much worse it could possibly get without killing him.

"John?" Sherlock's oddly hoarse voice pulled him out of the acute physical discomfort. At least for a little bit. There was light again. Even through some haze he noticed the tightly held back emotions in those eyes staring intently at him. He could only wonder what'd happened in the dark. "Your cheeks are flushed, you're sweating and you seem barely conscious even now. Do you have fever?"

John shrugged with his good shoulder, only the fog twirling around his head keeping him from feeling infuriatingly lost. He was a doctor – he should've been able to tell that much, at least. But everything was fuzzy.

His response clearly didn't ease Sherlock's mind at all. The detective fidgeted for a moment until relaxing once more, eyes smouldering with helpless rage. "It's only a matter of minutes before we'll get out of here, okay? I heard them talking, just before the lights came back on. They're getting ready for moving us. If I've guessed our destination correctly this will all be over soon. So stay awake, understood? I need you to stay alert. Don't stop talking to me again."

John could barely feel his toes or fingers. Every now and then a very unnerving tingling sensation went through him. He'd lost consciousness just now and it was more than likely that the same thing would happen again soon. But he wasn't ready to admit defeat just yet. Especially not when Sherlock so clearly needed him.

John leaned backwards, focused on the soothing sound of Sherlock's breathing instead of his own wheezing one. The poison was most likely making a mess out of his head because he was almost sure that he could feel the detective's heartbeat as well. Or was it his own? His chest didn't feel like a big enough place for his heart.

"I kept thinking about you, you know?" Ah, so this was Sherlock's new strategy for keeping him awake. The detective's breath shuddered slightly. "I wrote letters to you. Every single day. As it turned out there was a lot I needed to say to you."

That certainly claimed John's attention. He kept his focus on the detective, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how hard it was to breathe. "What 'd 'ou wri'?"

Sherlock shook his head. Under different circumstances the look in those eyes could've been mischievous, as it was probably supposed to be. Now it was closer to pained. "I'm not going to tell you that. And I'll never let you read them. I just… I wanted you to know that I… missed you, I suppose." The detective's eyes narrowed slightly. "But just so you know, if you ever tell Mycroft any of this my experiments will take over your side of the refrigerator." The unexpect moment of comfort was cut when a line of worry appeared to Sherlock's forehead. Was that really insecurity? "That is, of course, if you'll still have me back."

In a different situation, if everything had been a little less painful, John might've given a laugh. Or at least a smile. Didn't Sherlock already know that his home would _always_ be Sherlock's as well? He needed Sherlock to understand that things wouldn't just magically go back to what they once were. His trust had been damaged. They'd both received too many blows and new scars for it to mend easily. And yes, they'd irritate each other to no end, just like they always did. But… A home wasn't a home without Sherlock in it. They _were_ each other's home. John really, truly wished that he would've been able to tell Sherlock all that.

But since when had fate ever paused to listen to what he wanted?

Moriarty appeared far too pleased with himself upon entering with several of his men. John recognized only one. Sebastian Moran. "So, my friends…" Moriarty rubbed his hands together, almost like excited. "I'm afraid that our time together has come to an end. It's time to go and finish this spectacle. You two have given me a quite show. Thank you for that."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You won't make it out of this alive." It wasn't just a promise. It was a fact.

Moriarty, apparently, was more than at peace with that harsh truth. "Yes, I know that. You've gathered the entire police force to greet me. I don't expect to come out of that one alive. But before leaving…" Those eyes met John's. "… I'll make sure that you'll know exactly what it feels like to have your heart ripped out, Sherlock."

Sherlock's lips opened for a warning but there was very little John could've done even if he had noticed the looming threat. There was a sigh like sound as Moran stepped closer, then a microsecond of ache when a needle pierced John's skin. The doctor's eyes widened.

What did they just…?

"It's only a mild sedative. The same we used before first bringing you here." Moriarty gave him a winter cold smirk. "Shh… Now sleep. I promise that you'll wake up before the end. I wouldn't want you to miss the grande finale."

Just before drugged haze would've taken over John could've sworn that he saw Sherlock steal a glance towards the watch looking item that'd been attached to the detective's wrist. Even in his barely coherent condition he understood. The realization made his stomach flip upside down with something beyond grief.

So they were both counting down the seconds. John didn't know how long he had. Judging by the way his body was shutting down not much. But no matter.

Right there and then, with the dark closing in once more, John swore to himself that he'd make whatever time he had count.

* * *

John felt like he'd been breaking through a tidal wave. He groaned, struggling with the will of sheer stubbornness, and eventually managed to force his eyes slightly open. The sight he found brought chills to his sweat covered skin. Even though he was barely lucid he remembered this place.

How the hell was he supposed to forget the rooftop from which Sherlock jumped to his supposed death?

There were voices talking. Following the direction John found, through some blur but still, Sherlock and Moriarty. He couldn't tell where the criminal's henchmen had gone, didn't even care. All that mattered was that Sherlock was too close to the edge. Again.

"… the hell did you bring us here again?" That was Sherlock, wasn't it? It sounded like the detective had been holding back tears. Or perhaps it was just the fog in John's head.

Moriarty smiled. "Because, dear Sherlock… If we don't learn from our past mistakes, they tend to repeat themselves. You were far too persistent with letting people close to you. And that's why I decided to bring your heart here to die." The man glanced over the edge. "Besides, it's a nice view, isn't it?"

Even with the best of wills John couldn't tell if Sherlock was shaking or if his head was just swaying. "I'm not going to let you kill him."

Moriarty's eyebrow bounced up. There were hints of pity and amusement hiding in the man's eyes. "From where I'm standing it doesn't look like you have much of a choice. For this, detective, is finally the end." While speaking the killer stepped to the edge, spread his arms. It wasn't until then John noticed the tiny test tube in one of the madman's hands. It was full of greenish substance and suddenly understanding dawned. Moriarty's eyes gleamed with something close to arousal even though the man was dangling on the edge of his death. "This is the only drop of antidote ever produced against the poison flowing through Dr. Watson's veins. It's truly sad to see such a good man go – gosh, Sherlock, he's so unlike the two of us. But perhaps he'll choose his friends better in the next life."

The sounds of sirens approaching somewhere far, far away were enough to stray John's mind from whatever Sherlock screamed. And then, right before John's widening eyes, the detective took a step closer to the edge. Just like the last time.

_No…!_

Either Moriarty didn't see Sherlock approaching or just didn't care. Highly likely the latter. "Your friends from the Yard… Do you think that they'll get here before the antidote and I hit the ground? It'd be a nice additition to the drama, to have them see my fall." With a wicked, chilling grin Moriarty looked towards Sherlock who kept approaching unyieldingly. "We've always been good at creating drama, you and I." With that the killer leaned backwards – holding on to Sherlock's hand.

Moving was barely an option for John. His burning lungs, fuzzy head and broken bones screamed at him to stay down and let the dark sweep him to a blissful sleep. But he'd never been a quitter. And he sure as hell wasn't about to give up now.

Summoning absolutely every ounce of strength there was in him he pushed himself up and dashed on as fast as he possibly could. Hand reached out, just like the last time he'd seen his best friend on this rooftop. "DON'T!"

Moriarty's hold on Sherlock was strong. The detective had already swayed forward until John's weight crashed against him. While Moriarty fell backwards, all the way down with the antidote still firmly in his hold, Sherlock's fingers missed the test tube with nothing more than millimetres. It was fortunate, perhaps, that John never got to see just how close he'd come to receiving the substance that would've saved his life. The doctor didn't even try to fight a moan as he landed to the rooftop with a painful force. The impact was, however, softened by Sherlock.

Sherlock. Who was still there. Who hadn't fallen this time. The realization made John grin despite everything. This time he hadn't been too damn late.

"John. Hey, don't do that. Not now when it's almost over." Sherlock sounded very, very scared. Almost vulnerable. Very unlike Sherlock. "Keep your eyes open. Keep your eyes open and look at me."

John took a deep breath that instantly made him cough and wince. He didn't like the taste of blood that appeared to his mouth. It took much longer than he would've liked but eventually he managed to meet his best friend's eyes. Or so he thought. Everything was so blurry that it was hard to tell. "'rry…"

What looked like Sherlock shook his head. That much he could be sure of. "_No_. You're not saying that you're sorry, do you understand? Because you're not going to do something idiotic that you should be sorry about." He wished that he'd had the energy to say that those arms wrapping tightly around him from behind hurt, even though they were just trying to keep him from slumping down once again. There were probably some broken bones that shouldn't be disturbed. Sherlock swallowed loudly before continuing with the rant. "You're not going to… going to do something idiotic. You're not going to leave me."

It was John's turn to gulp. Because all of a sudden he couldn't see a single thing anymore – only a merciless, endless sea of dark. And he knew, for a fact, that his eyes were wide open. John swallowed again. The fact that he couldn't taste the blood anymore sent chills down his spine. He leaned backwards, closer to Sherlock, and wished that he would've been able to feel his best friend's warmth.

Absently, without a lot of conscious attention, John noticed that they were no longer alone. That there were hands touching him, voices calling out to him.

"_John, look at me. Try to focus your eyes on me._"

_I can't!_

Suddenly Sherlock was gone, pushed away. It was odd, really, that he could tell that much with how little awareness he had anymore. He would've wanted to reach out once more, for both their comfort and to make sure that his friend was okay, but just didn't have the strength anymore.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock._

White swallowed him up greedily. And then there was nothing.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Okay… (takes a deep breath) That was… quite chilly. Is there any chance for a happy ending for this one? (What did happen in the dark, btw? 'Sounds like Sherlock's been doing some screaming… Imagine how horrifying it must've been for him when John blacked out, unable to even see the doctor.)

PLEASE, do leave a note before you take off! I'd really love to know if this was a hit or a miss. I may just have some cyber-cookies to sweaten the deal… (winks) Plus, reviewing is your only way to berate a nasty author for stupid cliffies.

Until next time! I REALLY hope that you'll all join in then.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: Awww, I'm really glad to hear that! (beams) 'Hope that you'll be enjoying the chapters to come as well.

Colossal thank yous for the review!


	5. Acceptance

**I tried to update yesterday but the system just wouldn't let me. (growls) I really, truly hope that it works now. It's... about five in the morning here and I'm really, really annoyed about all this. (pouts) I just want you to know that I tried.**

A/N: Surprise! (grins) I know that it hasn't been five days just yet. But this chapter was born prematurely and I wouldn't have been able to update tomorrow, so I just didn't have the heart to make you guys wait until then. (blinks) What? I'm capable of being nice. (snorts at oneself) (Yeah, we'll see about that at the end of the chapter…)

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart for you reviews and listings! This story has received a ton more love than I would've ever dared to expect. So thank you! (GLOMPS) You're making me fall in love with Sherlock fandom even more than I already had.

Awkay… Because I'm always all fidgety when it comes to last chapters lets just cut the chase. I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the chapter, guys!

* * *

Acceptance

* * *

When Sherlock reappeared into his life from the death, barged into his office without a knock, Mycroft Holmes wasn't surprised. He'd known that his brother was alive – Sherlock's ridiculous, ingenious plan wouldn't have worked without his interference. It wasn't until Sherlock tossed a bloodied scarf and a cut off finger to his desk he jumped, face blanching and exclaiming a stuttering demand to know what was going on.

'_You screwed up_', was Sherlock's hissed response. _'You and your useless men fucking screwed up. He… He's got John, Mycroft. He took John._'

With the little time they didn't really have they formed a hasty plan. A fool's plan. Armed with a gun he'd never get the chance to use and several tiny tracking devices Sherlock headed towards Baker Street, with Mycroft keeping an on his brother the best as he could. It took what felt like ages before the first blinking spot appeared. Sherlock was with John, then. The wheels were already beginning to turn until bureaucracy came crashing down on them. By the time all was finally settled the second light was already blinking, on the rooftop of a infamous hospital. Speeding to motion with his men Mycroft wondered if it was already too late. If he'd failed his brother again.

Whatever Mycroft expected to find upon dashing to the rooftop wasn't what he found. He froze, completely, his eyes flying wide. Cold shook his whole form.

Sherlock was slumped to the rooftop, a bizarre, animalistic look in his eyes. Far too pale and breathing like someone who was on the verge of having a panic attack. Lips forming a neverending flood of desperate words that didn't quite carry to where Mycroft stood. The detective's shaking yet determined arms were holding on to John as though for dear life. Held on although there wasn't a trace of awareness left in the doctor.

For one, absolutely sickening moment that'd be burned into his nightmares forever Mycroft thought that John was already gone. Because how could anyone who looked so beaten, so throughoutly _smashed_, be alive? But then he saw the frail, barely traceable rise and fall of the chest. Always the soldier. Too damn stubborn to give up.

Emitting a strange, choked sound the origin of which he couldn't pinpoint Mycroft peered over his shoulder and bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Get a doctor up here! Anyone! _Now_!" Satisfied with the bustling of activity his order caused he focused on the two men once more. It was at then he realized that Sherlock hadn't even noticed him. Usually he wouldn't have been surprised. Now chills went through him.

Perhaps John was the one who was hanging on to dear life tooth and nails. But it was Sherlock who'd slipped into a state of shock. Things wouldn't be pleasant when people would arrive to take John away.

Slowly and cautiously, not daring to even try and guess what kind of a reception he'd get, Mycroft approached his brother. "Sherlock." No response. No reaction. He decided to use the very tone of a voice that'd infuriated the younger since they were children. "Sherlock, snap out of it. Right now. This is an order." Well, that surely got Sherlock's attention. It was a small miracle that the detective didn't throw a punch. Mycroft swallowed, wondering how in the world he was supposed to say this. But John seemed to be losing the battle. There was no time to waste. "John… He's been hurt really badly. Do you understand? He needs medical attention."

Sherlock focused on him for a second before looking towards John once more. One unsteady hand was placed precisely where the doctor's heart was beating. (_Their_ heart.) "He's been poisoned. Moriarty… Moriarty's got the antidote. John needs the antidote."

Panic shot through Mycroft like a jolt of electricity. _Shit…!_ How much time did they have? And Moriarty had just slammed to the pavement. What if…? "Okay." He forced himself to sound a great deal calmer than he felt. With all the horrors he'd faced during his career and before that it was easy to slip on the steel hard front. (The Holmes brothers were marvelous actors.) "The doctors… They'll do everything they can. But you'll need to let them do their work. Do you understand that?"

Sherlock shook his head. That animalistic look in those eyes turned into something that would've broken anyone's heart. "I… He's not going to leave me. He can't leave me."

Mycroft shivered. For the first time in ages he felt the desire to cry. If a small army of health care professionals hadn't arrived just then he might've very well shed a tear or two.

_Damnit, John…!_

In the end it took Mycroft and three of his men to control Sherlock when the strangers began to work on John, their moves experienced and swift. Over Sherlock's struggling and screams Mycroft told them about the poison. Then did something he'd never done before in his life. He pleaded with them. For John's life. And Sherlock's.

(Because dear God, if they'd lose John they'd lose _two_ people.)

A painfully young woman – Beck, M, MD. – gave him a look that held pity, resolve, undestanding and a hint of fear that chilled him. "We'll do whatever we can. I promise." And so John disappeared. With a heavy heart and a huge blockage in his throat Mycroft wondered if he'd see the former army doctor ever again.

Eventually they had to sedate Sherlock. They couldn't have someone in such a unstable state of mind in the hospital yet it was exactly where the detective needed to be. Feeling more helpless than ever in his life Mycroft kept a firm hold on his brother as the detective first struggled against the substance, then – very slowly – became dead weight in his arms. (The mere thought made him want to throw up.)

The staff was surprisingly discreet, considering that Sherlock had succeeded in punching two nurses who'd been blocking his path to follow John. Mycroft followed with heavy, slow steps as they took his brother to a private room. When they began to examine Sherlock for physical injuries he retreated from the room, but not before catching a unwanted glimpse of several large bruises and a far too thin form. His hand was shaking so badly that he almost dropped his cell phone upon taking it.

Five missed calls from Lestrade. He took a deep breath before calling back. "What?"

"_Where have you been? Never mind, never mind._" There was a deep breath. "_Moriarty's really dead this time. Along with three of his men._"

Mycroft gritted his teeth, glancing towards the closed door of Sherlock's room. He could've sworn that he heard a whimper. "Good."

He was about to hang up when Lestrade went on. "_One more thing. There was… a broken test tube, or something, in Moriarty's hand. Most of the stuff inside was spilled but there was still a little bit left. The lab's trying to figure out what it is._"

Mycroft's eyes widened a fraction. A surprisingly mild reaction, considering that his legs nearly gave out. It took far too long before he managed to talk. "Tell them to hurry up, alright? Tell them to figure out as soon as possible what's in it."

"_Why is it so important?_"

Mycroft swallowed, a bitter taste sitting firmly in his mouth. The image of a half dead John Watson refused to leave his line of vision. "It's a matter of life and death."

* * *

Mycroft was exhausted but couldn't fall asleep. His mind was spinning, fuming. A part of him wondered if that was how Sherlock felt all the time. No wonder his brother barely slept.

He shivered when there was a tiny, almost hesitant knock on the room's door. In a moment the same doctor who'd taken John away peered in, gesturing him to follow her to the hallway. There was a infuriatingly unreadable look on her face.

Carefully making sure that Sherlock was still sleeping – more or less peacefully, for it looked like the younger Holmes was in the grips of a nightmare – Mycroft hauled himself up and made his way to the hallway. It wasn't until he stood he realized how stiff his muscles were. How long had he been in the hospital?

It felt like this whole nightmare had continued for a decade.

The doctor offered him a tiny, somewhat pale smile. "We didn't do proper introductions the previous time. I'm Dr. Maria Beck, from the ICU. I'm the one in main charge over Dr. Watson's treatment."

Honestly, Mycroft couldn't have cared less about her name. He folded his arms with a deep frown, probably making himself appear ten years past his actual age. "How is he?" His voice sounded choked. He was surprised that he even got the words out.

Dr. Beck inhaled deeply but there was a light in her eyes that gave a cautious promise. "The laboratory sent us something that might be the antidote. Usually I'd prefer testing it more throughoutly first but in this situation… Frankly, I don't think that pretty much anything could've made his situation worse than it was." She gave him a moment before continuing. "The antidote was given to Dr. Watson only thirty minutes ago so it's a little early to tell if it's affective. Right now his breathing and heart rate aren't as stable as we'd like, which is why he needs to stay in the ICU. If his condition improves and if he responds well to the medication we may be able to transfer him to a ward in a couple of days."

Those were quite massive 'ifs' in Mycroft's book. He shivered before daring to ask more. "What about the rest of the damage?"

"A concussion. And so far we've managed to detect six broken bones. Our main concern are three broken ribs, one of which looks like it broke during a particularly rough attempt of CPR. It's hard to tell yet if they'll cause complications. We'll have to wait and see." She offered him a tiny smile. "It looks like he put up quite a struggle before he was taken. That doctor is one hell of a fighter."

The frail smile that appeared to Mycroft's face was a bitter one. "Yes. I know." He felt the need to lighten the situation a little bit. "He's Sherlock's best friend. He needs to be a fighter."

Once Dr. Beck left, swearing to let him know if there were any news at all, Mycroft had to gather himself for a long while before he found the strength and will to re-enter the room. By the time he did Sherlock had turned so that the detective's back was towards him. He took a breath, preparing himself for a hurricane. "So you're awake, then. The sedative wore off faster than they assumed." He took a step closer, no more. "They said that you're fine, save some bruises." No reaction. To be honest he hadn't expected one. "I have a feeling that you heard me and the doctor. John… He's going to be fine. It's going to take some time to recover from an attack like that but he'll pull through."

And as expected, the tornado struck. Sherlock bounced to a sitting position in a flash and a blazing gaze clashed with him. Cut right through. "Stop! Stop talking about him when it's your fault that he's here! Just… Just stop talking altogether! Shut the fuck up!" The detective's eyes were sharp, hazardous. To anyone else they would've been terrifying. "You…", the detective growled. "You let them knock me out!"

Mycroft wasn't fazed by the rage thrown right at him. He'd faced a pissed off Sherlock too many times in his life. This was all giving him a headache, though. "You were attacking the staff, Sherlock. Something had to be done or you would've ended up into a huge trouble."

Sherlock looked away, something unreadable in those eyes. Fists balled so tightly that knuckles turned white. "John needed me!"

Those words, or rather the sheer and unmasked despair behind them, stung Mycroft. He had to use all his willpower to remain in control over himself. "He needs you with a clear head – well, as clear you can manage. And some bloody self control. He needs you to be strong. Can you do that for him?"

Sherlock wasn't finished. Far from it. "He needed you, too, Mycroft! He needed you to do one fucking thing right – he needed you to find him!" I_ needed you! _"Where the hell were you? Why the fuck did you take so long?"

For a moment, just a moment, Mycroft's self control cracked. The words escaped without any control. "Do you have any idea of how hard it is to arrange a rescue mission with a supposedly dead person involved? Do you have any idea of how big of a mess you've made?" And then all anger drained, along with fight. His shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry."

At first Sherlock just stared at him, appearing more dazed and lost than after any amount of substance abuse. For a moment Mycroft worried that his brother might pass out. Instead, as per usual refusing to function according to expectations, Sherlock did something much more heartbreaking.

A tear rolled, soon followed by another. Mycroft could safely say that it was the first time he ever saw his brother cry and the sight _hurt_. When more tears spilled despite Sherlock's best efforts the detective scrambled out of the bed, blatantly ignoring the fact that it was idiotic to get up after the horseload of sedatives that'd been pumped into the skinny body.

"Sherlock!" was all Mycroft had the time to yelp before the bathroom's door had been slammed shut, shielding him out.

When Sherlock emerged, what felt like a lifetime later although it was closer to five minutes, the detective's eyes were red and puffy but dry. With a brand new frown Mycroft observed his brother's unsteady steps. "Are you… okay now?"

Sherlock nodded, a distant look in his eyes. It was obvious that the answer that came wasn't for the latest question. "Yeah. I… believe that I can do that, now. I mean, be strong. For him."

Mycroft stared for a second. What was he supposed to say to that? "Good", was what he managed.

Sherlock slumped heavily – without a doubt being purposefully dramatic – to the hospital bed and shifted pointedly so that the detective's back was once again towards him. Silence took over the room while minutes ticked by. Neither brother fell asleep, for they were both waiting for the nightmare to finally end.

* * *

Five days slipped away. Five endless, horrific days. Five days with John in a slumber the end of which was nowhere in sight, or that's what it felt like. Five days during which Sherlock drove the whole ICU-staff to the edge of insanity. (Three nurses pleaded to be re-stationed. One doctor delivered a resignation form.)

Mycroft sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he leaned heavily against the elevator's cool wall. His head felt like a bomb had just gone off inside it and his hand was far from as steady as he would've liked it to be. His body was, apparently, very well aware of how unpleasant the oncoming visit would be.

Mycroft hadn't actually met his brother in person since day one in the hospital with the whole chaos' aftermath keeping him busy. But Lestrade, who spent every possible minute with John despite or because of Sherlock's obvious displeasure, kept him reported. The detective refused to leave John for even a second, especially after the complications began to appear. Pneumonia. Infection. Fever. A brief cardiac arrest that most likely scarred Sherlock for life. But by some miracle the doctor was still fighting and Sherlock was determined to make sure that it'd stay that way. On day two the staff finally gave up and brought in a bed that wasn't supposed to be used anymore. ('_This is easier than having a new patient when he finally collapses_', a grumpy looking nurse explained. Mycroft sympathized.) In the end Lestrade began to bring in food for Sherlock and himself. The two of them learned to tolerate one another's presence. John kept sleeping, fighting, recovering, surviving. In many ways Sherlock was fighting the same battle.

Mycroft swallowed. That sour taste was back, it seemed. Sherlock was never, ever going to forgive him for this.

The elevator gave a uncomfortably loud 'bing' and the doors opened. Mycroft found his way through after some hesitation. Following Sherlock's voice made it easier. " _… supposed to be professionals? It's your job to explain this stuff to me!_"

Mycroft scowled. He was getting too damn old for this… "Sherlock, stop antagonizing the staff before they put you down again!" he bellowed as soon as he reached the scene. A timid, young girl who had to be a nursing student took this as her chance to run for cover.

Sherlock gave him a moody look and scoffed. The man looked like a pouting child with a five o'clock shadow. "They _are_ supposed to explain that damn gibberish they're babbling."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow but didn't have the will or energy to jump into the fight his brother was luring him into. His eyes strayed towards John's painfully still, still intubated form until he couldn't face it any longer and focused on the empty chair beside the bed instead. "Where's Lestrade?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened. It wasn't hard to notice that they wouldn't stray from John for longer than five seconds at a time. "Went to a loo. Thirty-eight minutes ago. When they announced that they're bringing down John's anesthesia."

That almost brought Mycroft to the floor. The look on his face was most likely priceless. "What?" So finally, after five days…

He glanced towards Sherlock and this time he was the Holmes deducing. For most the detective's expression might've been impassive. Even bored. But he noticed the tightness of the jaw. The changed breathing pattern. The gleam in those eyes that hadn't been seen since this whole chaos began – _hope_. He also saw how Sherlock held John's hand, so hard that the supposed sociopath's knuckles had turned white. "John… They said that he should wake up, any moment now. So… Whatever the hell it is that you've come for… It can wait. I'm not interested."

Mycroft stared at the two of them, his heart heavy in his chest. They'd been through hell, both of them. How was he supposed to deny them a single moment of relief? He couldn't. He wasn't the heartless bastard Sherlock probably often considered him as.

He just couldn't tell Sherlock that Sebastian Moran was still on the loose.

That just two hours ago a post had been added to John's neglected blog. '_Did you really think that it's over? M_'

Mycroft just couldn't bring himself to say that as soon as John's health would allow it the doctor would be transferred to another, unknown hospital, far away. Then into a safehouse the location of which only a witness protection unit's agent knew.

He couldn't tell Sherlock that now that John was waking up, getting better, there was no telling when his brother would get to see his faithful blogger again.

Since he couldn't tell any of those things Mycroft took a deep breath, then turned around and began to walk away. Leaving those two tormented souls to have at least a moment together. After all, it'd have to be enough to carry them for who knows how long.

Just before he'd walked off, though, Mycroft peered over his shoulder. Unable to resist the painful temptation. What he found broke his heart.

In the bed John's eyelids first fluttered, then opened halfway with evident effort. The doctor frowned, even appeared panicked for a moment, before focus seemed to return. Slowly, slowly, the still bleary eyes traveled from Sherlock's hand to the detective's face. And despite still being intubated, despite the pain that just had to be there, John's eyes softened and a spark lit up into them while the doctor's fingers curled ever so slightly. And on his seat Sherlock's whole face – entire being – lit up into the kind of a smile Mycroft had never, ever seen before. Once the instant shock had faded away a little bit Sherlock leaned towards John, whispered words only the doctor would ever get to know.

At that point Mycroft turned away. Partially because he didn't want to intrude a obviously private moment, partially because he just couldn't bear watching any longer. Wiping nonexistent moisture from his cheeks he did something he hadn't done since the beginning of this hell. He sent out a prayer.

* * *

**_End._**

* * *

A/N: Trust those two to lose even this second chance. (winces) How mean! But at least they're both alive. There's still hope.

So, the thing is… I'm toying with the idea of a sequel. At the moment I'm testing if the idea that's trying to clear itself in my head wants to come out. If the story actually agrees to come out, would you like to read it? (I believe that anyone who's read even one of my stories knows the risks involved.)

For now, though, THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart and soul, for all your love and support! You've been amazing readers. (GLOMPS) This was my first 'Sherlock' chapter fic so your support means the world to me. Thank you! (showers you with virtual cookies) And most of all, thank you for reading!

Who knows, maybe I'll be seeing you guys again later. As it is, ta-ta!

Take care, and much love!

* * *

**Guest**: I'm trying to update, but the system won't let me. (growls) I'm trying to replace the content - AGAIN. Whoever knows, maybe the time of miracles is at hand and I'll succeed. (sighs)

HUGE thank yous for the review! It means a lot to hear that you're out there, waiting for an update. (hugs)

* * *

**Nana**: Awww, hun, it's not unforgivable! I totally understand how hectic life can be. (winces and hugs) I'm just really happy that you're on board now!  
I'm glad to hear that you've had a good ride thus far. (beams) Things do seem a bit bleak right now, don't they? (winces) We can only hope that Moriarty's plan fails somehow and those two haven't used up their share of miracles. They'd really need this one more! Because there's no way Sherlock would just bounce back if he'd lose John after all this.

Massive thank yous for the review! Perhaps I'll see you around chapter 5, that is whenever I actually get it out.

* * *

**Sue**: Oh sweetie, I'm trying. But the system's blocking me. I think I've been trying for eight hours, now. Let's hope that they'll fix it soon! This is beyond annoying.

It feels really good to know that you're out there waiting, though. (grins from ear to ear)

Colossal thank yous for the review!


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